Faux Pas
by mml.you4ea
Summary: Between Sherlock and Watson, they thought they had seen and heard it all. Now for something completely different; a remorseful vampire who needs their help. - STORY NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

"Mr. Holmes, may I come in?"

The woman standing on his doorstep had been sent by Captain Gregson, but Sherlock wasn't especially inclined to help her. So far, she'd refused to tell him a thing about her problem except that it was very personal and of great importance. The refusal to be straightforward was a source of irritation…and it was 2 A.M. When she called earlier that evening, she said it was the only time she could meet him in person in the near future. She had a night job at the morgue and would come during her lunch hour. "I don't expect you to come to the morgue to see me," she said with a light laugh in her voice, "it's scary out there."

Rubbish had been Holmes' mental response, but Gregson had confirmed he knew the woman, and Artemis Merrill, as Gregson described her, was definitely the woman on his doorstep. She was very tiny, maybe an inch or two shorter than Watson, who was no giantess. Pale, with dark hair and eyes, despite her small stature, she was buxom and curvy, although her dark pants and turtleneck did nothing to promote her figure. Despite the very modern look of her outfit, which included black trainers and a backpack big enough to hold a laptop, Artemis Merrill had something of an old-fashioned air about her, something down right Dickensian. From the tightness of her springy long curls, to the curve of her slightly pink cheeks to the formality of her stance, Artemis Merrill was…otherworldly, just as Gregson had said. She was also an uncannily perceptive morgue attendant according to Gregson. Despite not being a doctor, she often seemed to catch things going on with a corpse that others missed.

"Come in," he finally said, standing aside for Artemis Merrill to enter. "Watson," he cried out. "Our guest has arrived." For some reason, Watson had insisted on staying up with him to greet the mysterious visitor. She had been watching some horrible movie marathon or whatnot, but apparently had taken a few minutes to make tea. She put down the tray at a large table in what served as his "office" while Sherlock indicated for Artemis Merrill to sit.

"How do you like your tea?" said Joan, pouring the delicious smelling Earl Gray from the pot.

"I don't actually," said Artemis, as she settled herself in a high-back wooden chair.

"Would you like coffee instead?" asked Joan.

"No, no thank you," said Artemis. "I don't need that, thanks."

"Well Ms. Merrill," said Sherlock, sipping his tea plain from a mismatched china cup and saucer, "perhaps you can enlighten us as to what exactly you do need." Watson could hear the agitation in Sherlock's voice. But there was something else perhaps? Sherlock seemed to be watching Artemis Merrill's chest, with a somewhat bewildered look on his face. She was a pretty woman and well-endowed, but it didn't seem like him to be so obvious.

Artemis bent her head down to catch Sherlock's eyes and smiled at him, "Yes, I think it might be best that I just come out with it. I'm not breathing Mr. Holmes because I don't need to do so. You're observations are correct." Artemis resumed sitting up straight. Sherlock moved his gaze up to Artemis' face. His stole a glance at Watson, whose gaze kept switching from Sherlock's side of the table and back again to Artemis.

"I was trained as a medical doctor, Ms. Merrill and that's not possible," said Watson calmly but clearly.

"That's quite correct if you're a human," said Artemis, "but I'm not one."

Sherlock stood up suddenly, "this is all very interesting and a lovely parlor trick, but it is exactly," he looked at the clock on the wall, "2:08 in the morning. I'm sure this will all seem quite amusing at some point next time I have Captain Gregson over for cocktails, but now, I'm bored and tired. Have a good evening, Ms. Merrill; Watson, please let her out." Sherlock moved away from the table.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm not here about my status as a human being; I just wanted to get that out of the way so you could focus on my problem. I'm here because I need your help with someone who I care about a great deal. Surely you can relate to that?" Artemis said as her eyes flashed from Holmes to Watson. Holmes stopped moving; he rolled his shoulders several times, perhaps trying to relax enough to think over Artemis' challenge.

Sherlock turned on his heels. "Very well; I'll give you another minute," said Sherlock, and as if to emphasize the time, he continued to stand, vibrating it would seem, with an agitation that generated from the very core of his being.

"There have been three deaths in the last three weeks that have come to our morgue; these people have been drained of their blood, found in alleys, always near clubs. The police are keeping the detail about the blood loss secret; they don't know what to make of it. I know for a fact the killer is NOT a vampire. But there are posers out there Mr. Holmes…people who are confused, degenerates, you name it, who think they are vampires. Most of them use their 'powers' to confound others into having casual sex with them, but I think some of them have crossed over into killing. These bodies are their victims."

"And as a vampire, why would you not just take care of business yourself if you know who these people are? You travel the night; you are a predator, are you not? So why call me?" Sherlock was still buzzing with adrenaline, but at least he'd stopped tapping his foot and unleashed his arms to hang free by his sides.

Artemis Merrill smiled and that was the first clue for Watson that she might actually be what she claimed to be. The smile was colder and creepier than any smile she'd ever seen. And at the farthest edge of the woman's mouth, the incisors took up more real estate than was natural to a human; if someone asked her, she'd tell them the teeth looked more like fangs. Of course, having been a surgeon, she was somewhat aware of the strange things people had done to themselves cosmetically, including tooth implants to resemble certain members of the undead.

"Because I'm afraid of what I might do and who I might hurt. There is a young man who may be involved. His name is Adam Rodriguez, but he goes publically by DJ Ramrod. Awful stage name, but he works many clubs and is very popular. He was my…my ward for many years until he become of age. We have been estranged since he reached adulthood. But I have heard that he has become involved with a woman. She is one of these faux vampires, as are a number of her friends." Although it did not seem possible, Artemis Merrill had once again morphed into a rather small and distinctly worried young woman.

Sherlock put up a hand. "By ward do you mean you were his guardian or that he was your underage lover?"

Watson wondered how Artemis would take the cold-hearted comment, but she didn't even blink. Instead she gave another creepy smile, and with a rueful glance said, "You would have made a fabulous Victorian detective Mr. Holmes. You see darkness in the most innocent of circumstance and proceed unflinchingly. Captain Gregson was quite right to recommend you. As for your question, our relationship was free of any salacious behavior. He was my child from age 2 on. I was not untrained in the care of young humans; many years ago, I was a biological mother, and a good one. Unfortunately, if he is involved in these deaths somehow, it is entirely my fault that he came to it. You see, I killed his mother in front of him." It was at that precise moment that Watson knocked over her tea. She sprang up to get a dish towel from the kitchen.

"It was self-defense on my part. His mother came after me; she was a self-proclaimed bruja, a witch. She moved in next door to where I was living at the time and somehow figured me out. She set a trap for me, but I ended up killing her. I didn't realize she had a child until it was too late. I couldn't believe it. She had Adam there in the apartment when she set out to kill me. I don't know what she was thinking!" Artemis shook her head and hit the table top with a great deal of force. "He saw the whole thing. I tried to erase it, but it was always there. He was too young to manipulate; the memory became a big part of who he is now. I can't imagine he would kill someone, but I could definitely imagine that kind of behavior from some of the people he knows. If I kill them Mr. Holmes, I'll just send him further over the edge, and frankly…when vampires get angry, unpredictable things can happen. But if his friends are responsible for the killings, and the police caught them and put them away in jail, maybe Adam would have a chance to wise up and make something of his life. Maybe he could finally be free of this curse I brought upon him."

Back in her seat, Watson found herself staring at the wood where Artemis' hand had pounded the table. She could see that a dent of about a quarter of an inch had been pressed into the table top. It was impossible to call that normal; someone of her size could not possible have left that kind of imprint bare handed. She looked at Holmes only to see him pointing an index finger toward Artemis. Watson looked at her face, and was stunned to see them…a trail of blood tears ran out of her eyes and down Artemis' cheeks.

Holmes had ended up giving her much longer than one minute to talk. Artemis rose from her chair. "My lunch hour will be up shortly. Will you please help me Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stared at the woman/vampire/whatever she was; "I'm sorry, but this case is something with which I'm entirely unfamiliar. I will have to think on this and get back to you tomorrow evening."

"I will do nothing to influence your decision or make you regret that decision, whatever it may be. You have my word of honor." Artemis said the words solemnly, as if they were part of some sort of ritual. She then presented them with a small curtsy and left.

Shortly after they heard the front door bang shut, Sherlock turned to Watson, "Well, something new to test the sobriety. Who would have thought? Good night Watson." He then went straight to his bedroom.

"Good night Sherlock," Watson called out. She sighed and decided to wash up in the morning. "Maybe I need to do a drug test on me," she said to herself, ascending the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you friends who have commented and followed! Back to our story...**

Watson woke up earlier than she wanted, but she was surprised to have slept at all, given the strange visit she'd shared with Sherlock and the supposed vampire, Artemis Merrill. As she lay in bed, hoping to drift back to sleep, she was consumed not with how Artemis had managed to appear vampire-like, but why? Why would a grown woman, trusted and admired by someone like Captain Gregson insist on pursuing this strange persona? Sleepiness was quickly melting away, replaced by a desire for coffee and breakfast. Rain had begun to fall sometime after she went to bed; it was a light, soft rain falling from puffy gray clouds. The forecast had called for clear skies later in the afternoon; she would run then. She dressed warmly in her favorite casual chic black pants, a ruby-colored red sweater, and black boots before going downstairs. She wasn't surprised to see Sherlock up and about, but she was surprised that he appeared to have not slept the rest of the night, given he had gone to bed before her.

Still in the same clothes, Sherlock's hair stood on end and appeared to need a wash; dark shadows lined the areas under his hazel eyes, accentuating the wrinkles in his forehead, as he puzzled over what appeared to be a medical report.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said. "Ummm…Did you go to bed last night?" She tried to say the words casually. Despite his protestations to the contrary, he became paranoid and grumpy when he was sleep deprived. It was also bad for his recovery efforts and something he did with more frequency than felt comfortable. Maybe it was time for another talk about his schedule? Watson sighed; it was too early to deal with this.

"I did; I had a full 30 minutes, and it was fabulous," said Sherlock, not averting his eyes from the report.

"Okay, then. Coffee?" said Watson as she went into the kitchen.

"Already made, I thought one more cup might bring clarity that the other four cups I've had since 2 A.M. had not. But apparently, that honor belongs to the elusive cup I've yet to drink."

Watson came back moments later with her mug of coffee and a slice of peanut butter toast. She sat down, waiting for Sherlock to bring her up to date. He finally put down the paper, and slumped back in his chair. "So I was having a lovely sleep last night when I woke up upon realizing that I might have the means in my hand to debunk Ms. Merrill's claim of being a vampire…her own tears. I went to the table and was lucky enough to find a few drips that had not yet dried. I collected what I could and took it to the police station. Fortunately it was a fairly quiet night, and the lab technician on duty was willing to put a rush on my request. Unfortunately, I am now more confused than I was before." Sherlock handed her the report.

Watson looked at the results. "Interesting," she said, not wanting to draw any conclusions. She wanted to hear what Sherlock had to say first.

"That's an understatement, Watson," Sherlock said, jumping up. He strode off to the kitchen and returned with his own mug of coffee and a bowl of cereal. Watson wasn't sure, but it looked like Captain Crunch. She cringed inside but calmly continued to eat her peanut butter toast and sip her coffee.

"So my new-found friend, Arthur the technician, performed a test for human blood; it came out negative. He didn't have enough blood to do a traditional CBC, but instead took a look at the blood under the microscope. He found platelets and white blood cells in numbers that are off the charts for a normal human, but no red blood cells, none. As you can see by his notes, he thinks the strange readings were due to contamination. But given what we know, it makes perfect sense. A vampire would not need red blood cells since they don't need oxygen. One could also imagine a creature that doesn't die having lots of what it takes to kill off infections and repair cuts. DNA tests would have taken longer; Arthur suggested the contamination might affect results, so I left." Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and ate several spoons of cereal and took a gulp of coffee. "Not that any of us are exactly prepared to interpret the results, right?"

Watson considered the situation for a moment. "There are other explanations for what happened."

"Yes of course there are, but it would seem reasonable that someone went to some trouble to perpetrate this drama, didn't they?" Sherlock then continued to eat in silence, as did Watson.

Finally, he couldn't contain himself anymore and continued, "It makes no sense, Watson. So I came back here and did some research on Ms. Merrill's background. According to her records, she's a thirty year old woman from Canada who's worked at the morgue for eight years. However, a woman with the same name adopted Adam Rodriguez 24 years ago, right here in New York City. She worked for a mortuary and moved to Canada 10 years ago where she supposedly died in a car crash a year later."

"So the woman we met last night stole Artemis Merrill's identity?"

"No. They have different paper trails. There is no evidence that they are the same person at all; it's just another dead end. I didn't ever think I'd say this, but I'm uncomfortable with this woman, and that is the reason I plan to tell her I will not help her." Sherlock slowed down now, chewing thoughtfully on each spoon of cereal. "It just…confounds me that I can't figure this out."

Watson took another sip of coffee, wondering if there were any words of comfort she could offer to Sherlock who was obviously agitated. "I can't think of a reason any rational person would want to feed into this kind of illusion. I don't think you can figure this out, Sherlock. If she suffers from delusional disorder or some other mental illness…"

Sherlock's phone chimed in, and Sherlock answered.

"Captain Gregson, how can I be of assistance?"

Sherlock's expression went from one of hopefulness to resignation in what must have been less than two minutes. "We'll be there soon," was all he said before hanging up.

"Captain Gregson wants to see us about the deaths Ms. Merrill mentioned last night. He also called to thank me for agreeing to help Ms. Merrill with her 'nephew's problem'. Apparently, my taking the case allows her to avoid a leave of absence and that makes Captain Gregson happy, given that multiple bloodless bodies are piling up in our fair city."

Sherlock stared at Watson intensely for a moment. "This is getting rather complicated. I think I'm going to shower now," and off Sherlock went.

Watson could not have agreed more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Thank you friends who have commented and followed! And our story continues. **

It was after 10 A.M. when they got to the police station. Sherlock insisted on getting a cup of the lukewarm coffee produced by a machine on the second floor before venturing to Captain Gregson's office.

"Don't look at me that way Watson," he said, while they stood there waiting for the cup to fill. "We can't all make time to drink coffee at a posh café while we size up potential dates."

"Drinking coffee at a café doesn't make me an elitist Sherlock," said Watson.

"Perhaps, but drinking jet fuel out of a paper cup does seem a bit more edgy, doesn't it?" Sherlock took a sip from the cup and cringed a little. "It truly surprises me the cup does not disintegrate upon contact with this stuff."

They walked to Captain Gregson's office where he sat behind his desk talking on the phone. After hanging up, Gregson greeted them. He got up to walk down the hall.

"Captain, I know you are quite keen on having me help Artemis Merrill," said Sherlock. "But, you do realize she thinks she's a vampire? That's enough to put someone off a bit."

Captain Gregson turned to look at Sherlock and Watson. "Sherlock, I think you may have misunderstood Artemis. She tries to make light of her real condition, but she suffers from porphyria. That's why she works nights; direct sunlight is dangerous to her health. She still manages to take care of an aging grandfather and stepped in to raise the nephew in question when her older sister abandoned him. That's a lot of pressure for someone who's maybe 30 and dealing with the side effects of a debilitating illness."

"You seem to have taken quite an interest in this young woman," said Sherlock.

"Early on when she joined the Medical Examiner's office, she helped me on a cold case. We ended up catching a serial murderer that had operated for 40 years…Jonathan Yarnell. There was a lot of research of ME records needed, and the job fell to Artemis. She gave it her all, and we pieced together enough evidence to build a case because of her work. We got to know each other; she reminds me a lot of my mother. My mom had a form of lupus that affected her skin. It was very painful at times, but she was always there for our family. She took care of everyone and didn't expect a thing in return."

Watson watched both men intently, as if she expected some major pushback from Sherlock, but he merely nodded in a resigned way and moved on without another word.

They entered the conference room where a tall,wide, graying man was already seated. "This is Dr. Jim Hildebrandt from the ME's office," Captain Gregson said. Jim Hildebrandt did not stand up but nodded at Sherlock and Watson who also sat down opposite a wall containing blown-up pictures of three bodies, along with facts about the cases. Detective Bell joined moments later, preferring to stand up behind the seated group. Captain Gregson began, "We have three murders that have occurred over the last 19 days. All three victims have been identified and were in their early twenties. All three bodies have been found within a block of a night club, but not the same night club each time. The victims were not killed where the bodies were found; Dr. Hildebrandt…"

Dr. Hildebrandt stood up to speak, looking like a great bear when stretched to his full size. "All three victims appear to have died from a blunt force trauma to the back of the head. However, post-mortem, all three were drained completely of blood. The drainage is not done by natural means; whoever has done this is using some type of equipment. There is very little residual blood left as one would normally see with someone bleeding out from a natural wound. In that situation, the heart stops pumping before all the blood is pushed out..."

"And blood drainage would be incomplete," Sherlock added. "The victims are likely taken somewhere, killed, drained and dumped?"

"That would be correct," said Jim Hildebrandt. "At first, we were unsure how the drainage had taken place. Whoever did this took great care attempting to hide the wound. Instead of doing it the easy way, they used a location down on the ankles; someone sealed the wound with some sort of glue and makeup. One of our technicians discovered the site."

"Ms. Merrill perhaps?" said Sherlock.

"Yes," said Jim Hidebrandt. He looked to Sherlock for more information, perhaps wondering how Sherlock would know her, but got no response.

Captain Gregson continued, "We aren't sure if there is a connection between the victims and the clubs. Victim 1, Mariah Cruz, MBA student, was a regular club goer, but we've not been able to establish a connection to Phantom, the club near where her body was found. Victim 2, Carl Vreeland, found near Altera and Victim 3, Daniel Marx, found near Strega, were not known club goers. Carl moved here six months ago from Amsterdam to work for a financial services company; coworkers said he worked long hours and wasn't exactly the friendliest guy in a room. Daniel Marx was a rabbinical school student, apparently devoted to his studies and a charity organization he helps run."

Detective Bell added, "And Strega is a very high-end place; the cover charge alone is $100 most nights. My cousin is a seminary student; in general, those guys aren't known for rolling in the Benjamins. We've looked into companies selling the type of equipment that could extract all the blood from a body; no hits so far, and we may find nothing. There are second-hand sales avenues or possibly someone imported one from outside the country. We've also looked into what someone could do with the blood; there is a certain dollar value assignable to blood products, but no one's going to become a millionaire off it any time soon. And there are legitimate and illegitimate avenues for obtaining blood, so why go to the trouble of buying a machine and killing and draining one person per week?"

"Is something special about these people's blood?" said Sherlock, his gaze traveling about the room as he took in the group. "Could someone want these peoples' genetic material, and someone is using blood as the source? If it was valuable enough, perhaps murder would not be out of the question?"

"Blood is a possible source of stem cells, but not without special treatment over several days. Bone marrow would be a preferred source," said Watson.

"And the bone marrow is untouched," said Dr. Hildebrandt.

"And there wasn't an extended period between disappearance and death. Witnesses saw all three victims within 6 hours of their death at most," added Detective Bell.

Captain Gregson continued, "We're adding patrols to the club areas. There's been talk about sending in undercover agents, but without a solid connection between the clubs and the bodies, it's overkill."

"I believe we are dealing with something entirely different here, not some sort of club killing spree," said Sherlock, getting up. He walked over to the pictures of the bodies and continued. "Two men, one woman, not related, not even appearing to share an ethnic background; that cuts down on the likelihood of sharing some rare genetic trait. What they do have in common is that all three are young, and lead busy lives with long hours. You'd have to be a pretty healthy, vigorous person to keep their schedules I would guess: an MBA student who also parties, a business person working 100 hour weeks and a rabbinical student who no doubt spends hours studying between serving those in need. It would seem more reasonable that their death may relate to that common trait."

Detective Bell added, "That still doesn't explain why they were dumped near clubs or what someone would be doing with that blood."

Sherlock countered as he stood up, "That would be correct and that's where I will start. Good day gentleman, there is much to consider. You'll be hearing from me. Watson…"

Joan jumped at Sherlock screaming her name and followed him out. She practically had to run to keep up with him. "Sherlock, there are lots of young healthy people out there; no one's taking their blood. How do you know there's a connection?"

"I don't; it's an educated guess…a deduction. I just don't have the entire picture yet. But I know someone who might be able to help with that."

"A certain vampire named Artemis Merrill?" asked Joan.

"Very good Watson, now you're deducing too."


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello everyone. Happy New Year. ****Sorry I've been ill so it took a while to get back into this. **Hope you enjoy the next installment of our story!

**I own nothing...etc. **

After coming back from the precinct, Watson went for a run. She took a long, leisurely route. Upon returning, she found Sherlock buzzing with excitement. "DJ Ramrod, Watson…he appears to be the connection between the clubs and the dumped bodies. DJ Ramrod was performing DJ duties at each of the clubs associated with a body the night the body was dumped."

"That doesn't necessarily mean there is a connection or the connection you expect," said Watson as she went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. She came back into the sitting area where Sherlock worked and sipped the tap water slowly.

"I'm looking for a reasonable pattern in the randomness of living, and this is somewhere to start. And we'll have a chance to work on Artemis Merrill's question at the same time."

"Let me get showered; think about what sounds good for dinner. Call it in if you like, I'll pick it up, then we can get going."

"There is no need for you to go Watson; I can text you every two hours; you can swab me when I get back."

"I'm coming with your Sherlock," said Watson. "It's my job to be there for you; under the circumstances, going to a club, being around people who are dealing or taking drugs, those situations could be a trigger for your own use."

"Nonsense; I walk down the streets of New York daily; drunk, high people, they're everywhere. If I wanted to avoid these things, I'd never leave the house. It will be a long and potentially boring night Watson. Clubs are tedious; watching people at a club compounds that tedium exponentially. However, DJ Ramrod is working Club Conniption tonight, and there may be a new opportunity to catch our killer."

Watson put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and smiled. "I'm never bored when you are around; I'll be ready to hit Club Conniption."

"Dress to impress Watson," said Sherlock, not looking up from the computer screen. "It shouldn't be too much of an effort."

As Watson turned to go take a shower, she broke out in a full grin. She was quick in the shower, and came down to find him in an almost completely black ensemble: black jeans, boots, and button-down shirt. A charcoal gray wool jacket finished the outfit. He'd even combed his hair into place with some product no less. Somehow they had managed to match outfits again without even trying. The only difference in their look was Watson's red leather bomber jacket. "I thought we'd eat on the way Watson; there's an excellent food truck that's going to be stationed about three blocks from the club. Hope you like Korean with a Caribbean twist."

They caught a cab and found themselves in the lengthy Club Conniption line within an hour, full from the unusual but excellent Korean tortas they had at the food truck. Sherlock spent time watching the crowd and the surrounding area. Watson people watched and tried to stay warm as a fog rolled in over the city. After realizing the line would not move them into the club any time soon, Sherlock walked up to the bouncer and whispered something in his ear. Sherlock then signaled to Watson to come over, and like that, they were in the hallway leading to the main club area. Watson put a hand on Sherlock's forearm. "How?" she screamed over the thumping sound of bass.

"The man was a felon and armed. I told him that I'd let it slide if he let us in," yelled Sherlock directly in Watson's ear. They continued walking down the dimly lit hallway and turned a corner to find a large dance floor spread out before them. There were a number of different levels to the dance floor and cages spread out above it. They could see a DJ planted in a booth above it all; "DJ Ramrod apparently", said Sherlock as he took Watson's hand and led her through the crowd. It was a good thing he had her by the hand. The place was packed, and they would have soon lost each other in the madness. The place was dank inside, as many old, converted warehouses tended to be, only becoming warm as you got close to the dance floor. A giant bar occupied one side of the room. Thankfully, there was seating around it, and as people began to leave their seats to dance the night away, Watson and Holmes grabbed a table after an apparently intoxicated couple poured out of their seats and sloshed their way toward the thumping sound of the music.

A waitress came up to take their order. Watson could not hear what Sherlock was saying, but the pantomiming between him and the waitress seemed to indicate he had ordered something for both of them. Sherlock scanned the crowd while Watson covered her ears and gritted her teeth. She hated the thumping base which set the fillings in her teeth on edge. The waitress finally returned with two cups of what turned out to be fresh, tasty, caffeine loaded coffee in fancy paper cups. Watson still had her jacket on and seemed to need the coffee's warmth, using the cup as a hand warmer. Sherlock sipped his as he worked, finally leaning his head in toward Watson, so she did the same.

"Watson, very disappointing news, but there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happening at this club. Are you ready to go?"

Watson nodded vigorously, not even trying to yell over the music.

They left through a side entrance that deposited them near a dodgy-looking alley.

"Feel up to a walk, Watson? I want to examine a two block radius around Club Conniption."

"That's what we're here for," said Watson, pulling the zipper up all the way on her bomber jacket.

Watson struggled to keep up with Sherlock as he walked at top speed. His legs were so much longer than hers; she practically ran to keep up with him. Some of the foot traffic was obviously club goers and other regular people having a night out on the town. But some of the people looked to be in about the same shape as the many burned out buildings. They ran into a couple of folks peddling drugs in a pretty obvious manner with seemingly no regard for police.

"This is really depressing," said Watson quietly as they passed more human misery, trash strewn sidewalks, and boarded up buildings. Sherlock didn't even appear to hear her; he was walking at top speed. "Sherlock, can you slow down just a bit please?" Watson added a little more loudly.

He stopped and turned around, "sorry Watson, you run so much, I just assumed you could keep up."

"Little tough to do walking; you're probably a foot taller than I am." Watson sighed, "I'm still trying to figure out how a man who seems to do very little exercise is in as good a shape as you are."

"My body works like a fine-tuned machine Watson because I do something I love every day," said Sherlock, only slightly slowing his pace as he continued walking.

"You probably just got a lucky ticket in the genetic lottery, Sherlock. You're lanky and muscular and built to be an athlete. You're the kind of person I loved to hate in high school; you're like the people on the cross country and track teams who could skip training, eat crap food, and beat me every time."

"Aaah…but you won the so-called 'genetic lottery' in your own category Watson. Extreme intelligence coupled with a petite but curvy build, and a face that turns heads. I wouldn't complain so hard, if I were you."

"Did you just call me good-looking?" said Watson, but Sherlock was off in yet another direction.

Watson hustled across another street. Sherlock slowed down as they came nearer to what looked like a storefront clinic. The sign, barely lit, was in Spanish with English subtitles.

"That Watson," said Sherlock "is a possibility. I want to finish up our night with a review of our victims at the morgue; maybe we can catch Artemis on duty. And then it will be time to go back home for a good think."

Sherlock took them back to the club, and hailed a cab to take them to the morgue. Watson hadn't realized how late it was; it was already after 2 A.M. She was tired and running around in the cold had set a chill into her bones once they stopped walking. She curled up on the seat, trying to stop the shivering that had set in.

"Excuse me driver, but can you turn up the heat please? My valet is cold," said Sherlock.

"Sorry sir, but it's broken," said the driver.

Sherlock took his jacket off and looked as if he planned to put it over Watson.

"Sherlock, the morgue's across town, you're going to freeze," said Watson, her teeth chattering.

"Not if we share body heat, Watson, would you mind?"

Watson gave Sherlock a questioning look, but shook her head.

Sherlock had her remove her jacket; he buttoned his jacket with hers, turning it into a makeshift blanket. He then moved in close to Watson, putting his arm around her. They then put the blanket over both of them. Surprised and pleased by the toasty results, Watson soon dozed off, leaning into Sherlock's body. Sherlock looked down to see Watson's head slumping peacefully on his shoulder.

"Ten more days," he whispered into her hair. He then pulled her a little closer as they drove on through the night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you everyone who has followed and commented! You bring joy to my day. I hope you enjoy this next installment as Holmes and Watson meet with Artemis once again. Holmes is getting closer to the truth, although he isn't quite there yet. And yes, I'm talking about the case and Miss Watson. I do not own the Elementary characters, but am merely borrowing them for this little adventure. Am thinking about writing another paranormal adventure (no vampires this time) but for the BBC Sherlock since it is more espionage/MI5 type stuff. What do you guys think? **

When they arrived at the morgue, Sherlock gently woke Watson who seemed to be in a deep sleep. She awoke, somewhat confused, perhaps because Sherlock had not screamed "Watson" at the top of his lungs as he normally seemed to do when trying to get her attention. He had already detached their jackets and after paying the driver, carefully wrapped Watson in her bomber jacket. Watson's eyes were still partly closed as she stood on the pavement, breathing deeply.

"Wow. I was so deeply asleep; it was a bit of a rude awakening. Sorry, I guess I've lost my tolerance for waking quickly from a deep sleep since I left medicine."

She felt Sherlock hands gently wrapped around her upper arms, as if he was holding her up. Seeming to shake off the last of the cobwebs in her brain, she opened her eyes and smiled. "Okay, I'm good," she said. Sherlock walked slowly toward the door, texting. The phone buzzed a moment later.

"Artemis is coming to the lobby to meet us." It seemed she had phoned ahead to the guard at the front desk who buzzed them into the lobby. They waited, and Artemis soon arrived. She was in scrubs, but her hair was pulled back into an elaborate bun highlighted by what appeared to be real ivory hair combs. "Please come with me," she said, without further discussion and led them down a hall to a steel double-door that opened out by pushing an electronic button. The hiss of the doors was audible when they opened. Inside were rows of storage fridges and off this main area were other rooms, used for autopsies. "All the bodies have been claimed, and so I'll need to walk you through things electronically" said Artemis, as they walked through the main area that narrowed into a series of rooms that seemed to serve as offices. Artemis opened a door that said "Dr. James Hildebrandt" with a key.

"I have Dr. Hildebrandt's leave to use his office for police consultations when I'm on duty," said Artemis, turning on the light to show a tiny room that said "utility" rather than "comfort"; white walls, a plain pressboard desk, and a nineties style black ergonomic chair filled most of the space. But the computer screen on the desk was an exception; it was at least a 27" monitor with stunning clarity if the screen saver was any example. Artemis sat down in what appeared to be the office occupant's seat. Sherlock and Watson took seats on a plain wooden bench set against the office wall, facing the desk. Artemis tapped out commands on an iPad and adjusted the screen to a better place for her guests to see. She brought up video of a body of a woman on screen; the harsh lighting and positioning of the body on an elevated table indicated it was from an autopsy.

"Mariah Cruz," said Sherlock.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," agreed Artemis. "I realize you have already seen stills with Dr. Hildebrandt, but after you texted me about your theory, I wanted to look at something from the video." Artemis clicked the play button on the video screen, and the autopsy began to play.

"We don't always take video, but the circumstances of the death were so unusual, it seemed prudent," Artemis continued. "Now the kind of clinic you texted me about typically would serve people in the community who have very limited insurance or no insurance. Mariah Cruz or Daniel Marx might have been in that position insurance-wise; they were both older students, no longer eligible to be on a parent's insurance, if that option was even relevant. I'm sure the police could give you more information. But Carl Vreeland would not have fit that profile; he had a good job and would likely have sought medical attention through another means. I can't see the guy waiting 12 hours at some barrio clinica to see a doctor. Now of course it is possible such a place was the nearest source of medical help if one was suddenly struck ill or hurt but not enough to call 911. Typically if someone gets picked up by an ambulance, the person would go to a major hospital in the city. Would you agree with that assessment, Doctor Watson?" Artemis stopped talking and her unblinking stare fell on Watson.

"Yes, I would agree although things may have changed a little since I stopped practicing medicine."

Artemis pushed a curl away from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Not much has changed, based on my observations." Artemis tried to smile again, and it was just as creepy as before. "Now to get to the point," added Artemis, as she pushed the start button on the video. The video began to play, and Artemis quickly hit the fast forward. "We just need to go in to 3:25,"said Artemis. She stopped the video at exactly 3:24:59. The video began to play. The camera was examining the inside of Mariah Cruz's arms. "See there," said Artemis, as she paused the video "you can see some scarring around the inner elbow." Artemis pointed to the screen, noting a small area of the arm. "I think Mariah Cruz was a blood or platelet donor and so were Daniel Marx and Carl Vreeland."

Sherlock shook his head as he examined the area Artemis had pointed out. "That is very difficult to see, Ms. Merrill. Are all three bodies like this?"

"Mariah Cruz's markings were the most obvious. My sight is probably better than yours, and I saw the body in person," said Artemis. "After viewing these videos again, I wonder if the location they used for drainage and the attempt to hide it was just a red herring. It seems to make no difference that we know about it."

"I think you are right Ms. Merrill," said Sherlock quietly.

"But something doesn't make sense to me," said Watson, "Carl Vreeland didn't seem like a guy who would be regularly donating blood. He was an uptight business man, working 80 to 100 hours a week. He didn't even make time to say hello to people at work."

"He had type AB negative blood, Miss Watson," said Artemis. "Maybe he felt a responsibility to give blood, given the rarity of the type."

"Maybe giving blood was how he dealt with being an overbearing wanker the rest of the time," added Sherlock. He continued, "So we have established there was a legitimate reason for someone to know something about these victims' blood; these deaths were not necessarily random. But what marked them as victims out of the thousands of people who give blood each year? Something about these three victims' blood was so important they were drained, but their organs left intact. Their blood was invaluable in this situation, but would typically be worth little. It's something they regularly gave away." Sherlock stared at the video screen, frozen on Mariah Cruz's arm.

"Mr. Holmes…," said Artemis.

"Shhhh…," said Sherlock, still staring at the video screen. He sat like that for another minute, then closed his eyes and sighed. "Damn, nothing presents itself as a solution. I need more information about these victim's blood donations. "

"Mr. Holmes, what about my ward; did you find out if he is okay?" Artemis hit a button and the computer's DVD player popped out. She removed a CD and put it in a plastic sleeve.

"A waitress at Club Conniption assured me he was in the DJ booth last night, although I did not see him personally. I did not see any unusual activity at the club. There is no proof he has any connection to these murders."

"Thank goodness," said Artemis as she stood up. Holmes and Watson stood as well and exited the cramped office. Holmes turned to face Artemis as she exited and locked the door.

"Ms. Merrill, if I feel your ward is in danger, I will let you know. But if he is a killer, I will have to let the police know. If that is a problem, then I cannot represent you, no matter how well you know Captain Gregson. I need to hear from you that you are okay with this."

Artemis stared at Sherlock or a moment, her face expressionless. Watson's eyes traveled between their faces unsure who to watch during their quiet standoff.

"Of course Mr. Holmes, I understand your terms and agree to them. I apologize if I've given you the wrong impression. I love Adam, but if he has done wrong, he will need to pay the price, whatever it may be. I am hoping that it has not come to that point yet. I am hoping you can tell me if something like that, something terrible, is in his future. I want Adam to be happy, and if that means us not speaking, I understand. But if I need to intervene, for his own good, to stop him from making a terrible mistake, well…then I am prepared to do so." Artemis spoke so softly, it was easy to forget that she claimed to be a predatory beast, one that wasn't even human. Under the corridor's harsh lights, her skin was very pale, almost chalky. It provided a sharp contrast to her impenetrable eyes, which were almost black.

Artemis passed them, "I'll lead you out," she said, once more using the back of her hand to pat down her thick curls that seemed on the verge of bursting out of the bun despite the combs and many black baby clips, visible on closer inspection, that held the curls in place. Sherlock and Joan followed her wordlessly to the building's lobby. Artemis turned around to them.

Sherlock spoke first, "I believe, Ms. Merrill, that something highly unusual is taking place with these deaths. Thank you for your time; you have my word I will be thinking on this day and night until the matter is settled. And I will continue to check any link to your ward until I am sure his is not involved."

"Understood; take care Mr. Holmes… Miss Watson," said Artemis, "I bid you a safe trip home." And with that, Artemis Merrill turned around and walked back into the bowels of the coroner's office while Holmes and Watson made their way into the dark before the dawn.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Holmes and Watson arrived home, the sun had risen, and New York City was starting another day. Watson seemed to have gained a second wind and after announcing she was starving, set to work on making an omelet and coffee, the real stuff Sherlock insisted on and decaf for herself. Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table while Watson worked, and resting his head on the table, seemed to nap for a while. Watson made the omelet in the biggest pan, so there was plenty for two although she wasn't sure if Holmes might opt for something sugary from the pantry instead. It didn't matter really; if an omelet contained enough veggies and cheese, she could eat leftovers cold right out of the fridge. This one contained a couple of cups of organic peas and a good quantity of sharp cheddar, topped off with a dab of sour cream. Before putting the plates down, she gently nudged Sherlock's elbow. His head shot up straight, and he was immediately alert. He thanked Watson for the omelet and accepted the cup of coffee she delivered to him shortly after. They ate in silence, except for several large yawns that Watson unsuccessfully attempted to stifle. Sipping her coffee, she watched Sherlock as he sat, deep in thought, also sipping coffee.

"I'm going to go to bed for a while Sherlock; if it's okay with you, I'll leave the dishes to soak and clean up later."

"No worries Watson, I'll clean them myself; it helps me to think when I'm doing something with my hands. Lock picking has its rewards, but sometimes one needs a change of pace."

"Maybe something more than a 15 minute nap in a couple of days might help with that too, you know," said Watson, taking her plate and cup to the sink. She put the stopper in the drain and squeezed out some soap. She ran just enough water to cover the dishes and went upstairs. After brushing her teeth, she changed into warm pajamas and slipped between cool sheets. It took moments for her to fall asleep.

Watson awoke, with a start, momentarily disoriented, but after looking around, she realized it was just the light that was throwing things off. After looking out her window, she could tell it was sometime in the middle of the afternoon. She went downstairs to find Sherlock on the couch, a laptop cradled across his hips, fast asleep. She left him there and went to the kitchen to clean up, but he had already done it, and so she made tea instead. Though she was quiet, Sherlock came into the kitchen about 15 minutes later as she was finishing her cup of tea.

"Care for another cup, Watson?" he asked as he put on a kettle and selected a bag of tea for himself.

Yes," said Watson, bringing her cup over. It didn't take long for the water to boil. "I'm glad to have someone to drink tea with occasionally," she said as Sherlock poured the water in to her cup and then his own. "Most of my former clients seem to drink coffee in vast quantities."

"Coffee can be a stimulant for those who don't have more exiting choices in their lives." said Sherlock casually, "Is the parlor okay? I want to show you something."

Watson followed him and sat down on the couch, "Many of them smoke cigarettes as well; some see it as a harmless way to ease off of a harder drug of choice. It's not easy to explain to them that cigarettes can be hard to kick too. But staying up for hours on end and then crashing is also a form of drug abuse Sherlock. Your body starts hurting and your brain feeds itself chemicals to keep going. Big high followed by a massive crash; its nature's version of speedballing. " She said the words softly, but Watson's expression was pensive.

Sherlock bent over and staring into Watson's lovely brown eyes from inches away, and said "I can assure you on good authority my dear Watson that staying up for two days straight is nothing like speedballing."

Sherlock's face was so close; Watson could see all the colors in his iris. Patches of gray, green, and even brown mixed together in such perfect harmony; the eyes could appear to be any of those colors at a given time. Watson swallowed deeply and blinked several times. Sherlock stared deeply into Watson's face, his brow slightly furrowed. After locking eyes with her for at least a minute, Sherlock's brow relaxed, and he stood back up. He grabbed the laptop that had been his sleeping companion earlier and opened it.

"Resolution is at hand, Watson," said Sherlock. "I have tracked down DJ Ramrod's elusive girlfriend, the faux vampire. Due to DJ Ramrod's growing popularity on the club scene there is a string of candid photos of him available, but the girlfriend prefers the Greta Garbo approach." Sherlock pulled up several photos and each time, the woman by DJ Ramrod's side had thrown up a hand to the camera, ruining the photographer's ability to capture her full face in the photo.

Sherlock pulled up the photo of an attractive blond woman who appeared to be in her mid to late twenties and continued, "So I used a software package to meld together a picture of her face using several images from different angles. I then used facial recognition software on the merged image and found a match. Her name is Alexis Wells. Miss Wells works for a blood bank, supposedly as a phlebotomy technician, an odd choice for a woman who was working on her doctorate in biochemistry less than two years ago. But she followed this man to the job," and Sherlock pulled up the picture of a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair. "Dr. Soren Anderson was Alexis Wells' doctoral thesis adviser. His expertise is in biological drugs. I'm sure you're familiar with the concept?"

"Of course, but I don't see the connection to murder in that."

"Neither did I at first, but I looked into Dr. Anderson's history. He came to New York in late 2010 to run Isis Labs. Isis Labs fell into disgrace and bankruptcy after a scandal involving falsification of results when testing for performance enhancing drugs in professional athletes. Dr. Anderson left his tenured university position after a scandal broke regarding his connection to a powerful Colombian drug lord and the funding he'd received from him. Now chemists and drug lords collaborating is nothing new, but biologicals, apparently, may be the source of the next generation of recreational drugs, and Dr. Anderson's move to Isis Labs put him in a position to have access to the raw materials to create those drugs." Sherlock clicked on another tab for Isis Labs.

As part of their business, Isis Labs is an independent blood collection agency. All three of our victims were blood donors, and I wanted to know if they had given blood within an Isis Labs facility."

Sherlock set the computer back on a table and continued, "Usually, getting through the network security of an independent blood collection agency would be a snap. After my own attempt earlier today, I contacted one of my associates, an Eastern European hacker known as 'Reine' to help break in. Her nickname is highly descriptive of her abilities, and she has now had this problem in her hands for over five hours with no success. If the international Queen of hacking can't get into their systems that seems to be a good indicator that something much more serious than blood draws is taking place at Isis Labs. I don't know exactly why these people died. Maybe they were test subjects, maybe their blood contained a natural occurring substance that's needed for Isis' secret work, or maybe their bodies were used as a lab to create a biological drug that was harvested before the bodies were dumped. All of those situations are possibilities, but whichever scenario is correct, I believe we've found a motive and a culprit."

"If this is true Sherlock, the implications are staggering," Watson's words came out haltingly, as if she was stunned by the revelation, "turning people into nothing more than ingredients for a money-making enterprise – that's horrible." Watson, who'd been slowly leaning in as Sherlock spoke, intent on listening, now folded her arms and leaned back, and chewed thoughtfully on her lip as she sometimes did when faced with a particularly powerful puzzle.

"Indeed they are Watson, but more troubling is how to stop it. When Professor Anderson left his professorship, it was entirely voluntary. The accusations were shrugged off as ridiculous; biologicals are expensive to create and recreational drugs need volume to make them profitable. No matter what the evidence, no one in the know really believed it was possible. I also suspect evidence as to the reasons behind these crimes disappeared with the blood that was drained from the bodies. So no motive and no evidence equal a weak case. From Captain Gregson's perspective, this may as well be an elaborate fairytale."

"Maybe their DNA or something else might indicate a reason? Maybe there's something left at a cellular level?" asked Watson thoughtfully.

"I think not; otherwise, why not incinerate the bodies, or get rid of them in some other way?" Sherlock sat down next to Watson on the couch, and sighed deeply. He put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes, suddenly spent from the discussion.

"You should try to get some sleep," said Watson.

"I have never been in less need of rest." Sherlock words said one thing, but his tired voice said something else.

"Sherlock, you're right about this being a difficult case for police to unravel, but there are other means of linking criminals to a murder. What about forensic evidence linking those crimes together, now that you have an idea as to what happened?"

"There is none, and I can assure you Ms. Merrill and her team were quite thorough in their investigation. We texted extensively last night; excellent observation Watson, but a dead end nevertheless."

The twosome sat quietly for a moment, contemplating the wall in front of them.

Watson broke the silence. "What about the bodies being left in public? Why would they do that? I mean, Isis Labs IS a lab; they'd have the means to get rid of biological waste. It wouldn't be too hard to imagine that a shady lab might be able to cover up getting rid of body under the disguise of normal business. Why leave a body on the street where someone might see you dumping it? It's almost like they were trying to taunt someone or leave a message."

Sherlock suddenly sat up, completely alert and turned to Watson. "A message indeed, but who was the recipient?"

"DJ Ramrod would be my choice," said Watson.

"Why not just kill him? If he knows something, he's in the way," said Holmes.

"Well - what if Alexis Wells and Dr. Anderson actually believe Artemis Merrill is a vampire or at least something so dangerous that they don't want to take a chance angering her by killing her son? They're biochemists and qualified to do advanced research. What if they got a sample of Artemis' blood, and – they didn't know what to make of what they found? If DJ Ramrod got wind of what his girlfriend and her boss were doing, maybe instead of killing him, they decided to give him a warning."

"Bodies all over town," whispered Sherlock, the rumble of his voice deepened by lack of sleep.

"Yes, bodies all over town" said Watson with a note of satisfaction in her voice. Comfortably sunk into the couch, Watson sat another moment, thinking.

"I can't think any other alternative right now. I don't even know what time it is, but I'm hungry again. I'm thinking about pho from the Vietnamese place; are you interested?"

There was no answer because Sherlock had fallen fast asleep. Apparently, he was satisfied with the answer too. Watson took a blanket from the end of the couch, and gently wrapped it around Sherlock's sleeping form.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello lovely readers - thanks again for your wonderful encouragement and patience. This is the last installment of_ Faux Pas_, and I hope you enjoy it. I have enjoyed borrowing the characters of "Elementary" but still have no claim to them.**

After having pho delivered for the two of them, Joan had eaten the comforting bowl of soup and gone to bed. Sherlock had not awoken. She had put his container of soup in the fridge with a note to let him know it was his. She was surprised to be awoken in the middle of the night by Sherlock, with a gentle shake of her arm.

"…we're going to see Artemis Merrill. I've got some warm clothes laid out on the foot of the bed," said Sherlock.

"What time is it?" said Joan, not quite ready to open her eyes even though she was sitting up, thanks to Sherlock's help.

"It's 3:30 in the morning. When I awoke at 2:47, I texted Artemis to let her know we had resolved her ward's case, well, resolved it as best we can. She's at her home which is quite a bit closer than the morgue, and so I let you sleep a bit more. A cab will be downstairs in 10 minutes; I'll leave you to dress." And with that Sherlock left Joan's room.

Less than 10 minutes later, Joan came down the stairs. She was still yawning as Sherlock handed her coffee in a travel mug. The ride to Artemis' brownstone took about 15 minutes in the light traffic. The brownstone was beautiful and completely restored to what must have been its original grandeur. Sherlock rang an ornate but thoroughly modern doorbell which glowed softly in the darkness. Artemis herself came to the door. Dressed in jeans and a Smith's t-shirt, she could have almost been a teenager. Her hair was down this time and the curls, sprung loose, made up a wild cloud around her head.

"We'll talk in the kitchen," she said, taking them toward the back of the house. As they walked past what would normally be a living or dining room, Joan turned to see a good deal of medical equipment and a nurse checking a man in a hospital bed. In the soft glow of the nighttime lighting, she could make out that the patient was elderly while his nurse was a young, tall, ebony-colored man of indeterminable age.

"Tea?" asked Artemis, as she stepped into the kitchen. "I have fresh food as well if you like."

Joan and Sherlock said "tea, please" simultaneously and sat at an ancient looking table that provided a centerpiece to the room while Artemis busied herself making tea. The table's wood, medium in color, was covered in a patina of stains and gouges providing a historical map of the table's existence. Joan ran her hand across a set of stains that appeared to have come to exist there due to an overenthusiastic use of crayons.

"Perhaps the work of a younger DJ Ramrod," whispered Sherlock in her ear.

Artemis brought them the tea and what appeared to be butter cookies on a beautiful teak serving tray decorated with an inlay of water birds. She formally served tea to them both, adding cream and sugar as requested, and then sat down.

"Despite your assurance Mr. Holmes, I must admit I feel some trepidation," said Artemis.

"I am reasonably sure that your ward had nothing to do with the killings Ms. Merrill; however, I believe there is a connection. The situation is quite – complicated." And then Sherlock spent the next 15 minutes explaining the complicated situation he had discovered: the truth about Alex Wells, the front that was Isis Labs, the reason behind the bodies they'd found, and then finally, the threat against DJ Ramrod. Surprisingly, Artemis did not speak at all; she just listened, and as both Joan and Sherlock noticed, did not blink once. Finally Sherlock finished.

Artemis' soulful eyes looked at nothing as she stared at the table, so silent that she might have been a statue. Finally she looked at Sherlock and spoke. "Are you certain there is no way that Captain Gregson can arrest them, based on what you've found out?"

"You know yourself Ms. Merrill that no evidence was found on the bodies. I doubt a judge will give the police a search warrant based on rumors and innuendo. Your ward would seem to be the best option to help police catch them, if he knows something and is willing to talk."

"We don't know how deep this drug ring runs Mr. Holmes. If Adam were to get involved, testify, he might be in danger for a very long time, perhaps forever, right?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, "I would not disagree with your observation, but if he doesn't go to the police, then more deaths are likely, and he'd still be in danger."

"Mr. Holmes, I don't have any intention of allowing that situation to continue; my loyalty is to Adam." Although she didn't bare any fangs, the look on Artemis Merrill's face gave no doubt that her thoughts were lethal.

Joan began to speak, but stopped when Sherlock put a hand on her knee under the table and squeezed hard. Finally she said, "Good luck with that."

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Holmes and of course Ms. Watson. I'll see you out." Artemis got up and silently led them back to the front door. Watson exited quickly and was down the stairs calling for a cab. As he exited, Sherlock turned around to face Artemis. "The man in the hospital bed, that's Dennis Macklemore, the poet laureate, correct?"

"Yes," said Artemis. "I shouldn't be surprised you figured that out. I'd heard about your detecting skills, and I'm certainly not hiding that he lives here."

Sherlock continued, "I was sorry to hear he doesn't have long to live. His work had a great deal of meaning for me while I was in rehab. It's unfortunate I discovered his work so late in life. "

"If he could, he would tell you that a moment of happiness in a lifetime is a moment worth living for, Mr. Holmes." Artemis' eyes sparkled, but the blood tears stayed put.

"I'm not sure how these things work, but couldn't he have become like you?" Sherlock wondered if she might become offended by the question, but he was curious and felt compelled to ask.

Artemis turned her head thoughtfully and then finally spoke. "It's the nature of human beings to grow old and die. It was his choice, Mr. Holmes, to live as a human, and it was my choice to stay." Artemis' expression saddened, but then she smiled quite sweetly. "You're so clever Mr. Holmes; you're an anomaly in the world, and I've seen a lot of people. I'm sure it's been tough for you, but that doesn't mean you have to be alone. If Den and I could find happiness and be parents to Adam, I don't think there is anything you can't do or experience. It doesn't take fabulous riches or magic. Just don't be afraid to reach out; there are people who care some of them closer than you know." Artemis' eyes flitted briefly to Joan, if Sherlock was correct, but the vampire's movements were so quick, he wasn't quite sure. Sherlock nodded and made his way down the stairs that lead to the street. He heard Artemis say behind him, "Remember Mr. Holmes, I'm a vampire, I know these things."

Back at their brownstone, Joan had gone back to bed. Sherlock was ready to go to bed as well, but decided to do one more thing. He got his laptop and opened it up to a saved web page. The website, dedicated to poets, featured a long article about Dennis Macklemore. One of the photos, showed him in "London – 1953" sitting outside at a café at night, the glow of candles combining with the black and white film to create a haunting picture of a gentle-looking man. Thin, dark, and bespectacled, his arm was around a tiny woman. The woman's dark eyes and ringlets glowed as well with a happiness her solemn looks could not deny. Sherlock printed the picture and after cutting the edges, pinned it to one of his walls.

If he could use the wall technique to find connections in his cases, why couldn't he use the same technique to find happiness in his own life? Artemis had been right, even she could find happiness, whatever she was, then why couldn't he?

He stood a long time, looking at the couple's picture. He thought about a picture Joan kept in her bedroom of herself and her parents. What would she think if he added her picture to his wall? How would he even begin to explain what he was trying to do? He wasn't even sure himself. "Maybe I should just take you down," Sherlock said to the smiling couple. They just looked back at him across the years; their knowing smiles almost revealing their secrets, but not quite.

No, thought Sherlock as he turned out the light and went to bed. He'd sleep on it first.


End file.
